Vaelin fought down the sorrow clutching at his chest. No time for weakness now. “What do you need?”
“The mansion must be sealed and guarded. No-one can be allowed in or out. You must be watchful for any more victims in the city at large. My orderlies know what to look for. Any found to have the sickness must be brought here, by force if necessary. Masks and gloves must be worn when dealing with them. You must also seal the city, no ships can sail, no caravans can leave.”
“There’ll be panic,” Caenis warned. “The Red Hand killed as many Alpirans as Realm folk in its time. When word spreads they’ll be desperate to flee.”
“Then you’ll have to stop them,” Sister Gilma said flatly. “We cannot allow this plague loose again.” She fixed her gaze on Vaelin. “You understand, brother? You must do whatever is required.”
“I understand, sister.” Through his sorrow a dim memory began to surface, Sherin at the High Keep. He tended to avoid thinking of that time, the sense of loss was too great, but now he fought to recall her words that morning after the death of Hentes Mustor. The Usurper’s followers had trapped her with a false report of an outbreak of the Red Hand in Warnsclave. I had been working on a cure…
“Sister Sherin,” he said. “She told me once she had a cure for the sickness.”
“A possible cure, brother,” Gilma replied. “Based on theory only and beyond my skills to formulate in any case.”
“Where is Sister Sherin stationed these days?” Vaelin persisted.
“At the Order House, last I heard. She is Mistress of curatives now.”
“Twenty days sailing with a good wind,” Caenis said. “And twenty days back.”
“For an Alpiran or Realm vessel,” Vaelin mused softly. He turned back to Gilma. “Sister, ask the Governor to write a proclamation confirming your measures and ordering the city-folk to cooperate. Brother Caenis will have it copied and distributed about the city.” He turned to Caenis. “Brother see to the guarding of the gates and the mansion. Double the guard on the walls. Use our men only where possible.” He glanced back at Sister Gilma and forced an encouraging smile. “What is hope, sister?”
“Hope is the heart of the Faith. Abandonment of hope is a denial of the Faith.” Her own smile was faint. “I have certain instruments and curatives in my quarters. I should like them brought to me.”
“I’ll see to it,” Caenis assured her.
Vaelin turned to go, hurrying along the stone-paved path. “What about the docks?” Caenis called after him.
Vaelin didn’t look back. “I’ll see to the docks.”
The Meldenean captain was compact and wiry, sitting across the table from Vaelin with his lean features drawn in a suspicious glare. He wore gloves of soft leather, his hands clasped in a double fist on the table. They were in the map room of the old Merchant’s Guild building, alone save for Frentis who guarded the door. Outside, night was drawing on quickly and the city would soon be sleeping, still blissfully unaware of the crisis that would greet them in the morning. If the captain had any complaints about how he and his crew had been hauled from their bunks, forced to strip and submit to an inspection by Sister Gilma’s orderlies before being brought here, he clearly felt it best to keep them to himself.
“You are Carval Nurin?” Vaelin asked him. “Captain of the Red Falcon?”
The man gave a slow nod. His eyes flickered continually between Vaelin and Frentis, occasionally lingering on their swords. Vaelin felt no desire to alleviate the man’s unease, it suited his purpose to keep him scared.
“Your ship is reputed to be the fastest vessel to sail from this port,” Vaelin went on. “Finest lines of any hull ever crafted in the Meldenean yards, so they say.”
Carval Nurin inclined his head but remained silent.
“You have no reputation for piracy or dishonesty, unusual for a captain from your islands.”
“What do you want?” The man’s voice was harsh, rasping and Vaelin noticed the pale edge of a scar protruding from the black silk scarf he wore around his throat. Pirate or not, he had seen his share of trouble on the seas.
“To engage your services,” Vaelin replied mildly. “How fast can you get to Varinshold?”
The captain’s unease lessened but suspicion still clouded his face. “Done it in fifteen days before. Udonor was kind with the northerlies.”
Udonor, Vaelin knew, was one of the Meldenean gods said to have dominion over the winds. “Can it be done quicker?”
Nurin shrugged. “Maybe. With an empty hold and a few more hands to run the rigging. And two goats for Udonor, of course.”